The American (2010, Anton Corbijn) (Patreon)

59/100

Another film that could've been titled Lust, Caution. For a literary adaptation (of a novel that appears to be heavy on confessional interior monologue), this is remarkably detached and methodical, anchored by Clooney's internalized performance; you arguably learn more about rifle manufacture and assembly than you do about the protagonist. Primary Italian location's just ludicrously photogenic, adding an extra frisson to the many shots of Jack just warily walking around, eyes peeled and ears cocked for the threat he's ever anticipating. I seem to vaguely recall a certain faction, at the time of the film's release, that checked out right at the beginning, when a big-time Hollywood movie star executes an innocent woman in ice-cold blood, seemingly for the sole purpose of covering his tracks. Might merely have been critics speculating that this act of casual cruelty would alienate Clooney fans—it's been a while. In any case, the shock energized me (I'd forgotten until it happened), at least until it became apparent that "Can he avoid murdering someone he cares for again?" would power the film's two-cylinder dramatic motor. While admirably subtle in most respects, The American does seem concerned that we might somehow fail to pick up on this, having Jack's handler make a point of telling him, w/r/t the time he'll spend laying low in Italy, "And above all, don't make any friends." So my heart sank a little when Jack forms an attachment to Clara the sex worker, taking her out on proper dates and generally creating the expectation that we're in for either a self-inflicted tragedy or a noble sacrifice.

Turns out it's not quite either, though what happens involves elements of both. Still, I can't help thinking of this as The American Version—specifically, of Lucas Belvaux's superb On the Run (part of his Trilogy), another portrait of an emotionally constipated, hypnotically fastidious, obsessively vigilant career criminal in hiding. Both films are about the price of a vocation that makes trusting or even just being with other people all but impossible, but Belvaux keeps that theme implicit; even the ending—among my very favorites in cinema—relies on our extrapolation for its power. Feels quintessentially American (despite the source novel being English) to romanticize the same basic idea, with our anti-hero struggling to fashion some semblance of a normal life rather than stoically resigned to his solitary fate. Big ol' ugh to the priest who serves as Jack's Jiminy Cricket here, at one point noting that he (the priest) has love in his heart and pointedly asking Jack, "What do you have?" Again, there's a lot less of this sort of thing than you'd find in a typical Hollywood thriller, and I was happily surprised by the avoidance of what seemed like certain Syd Field-ish missteps. (Was sure, for example, when we see a suspicious Jack re-open the briefcase before handing it off, that he'd misaligned the scope in a way that would see Clara get shot in his place. I think that might even be deliberate misdirection.) But it's mostly the procedural stuff, like Jack timing his hammer blows to a nearby church bell's tolling, that's likely to stay with me.